


Red Velvet - Volume I

by Red_Velvet_Novel



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Catharsis, Complete, Gen, Post-Fall of Beacon, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Velvet_Novel/pseuds/Red_Velvet_Novel
Summary: The End Draws NearThe world of Remnant is overrun by monsters; its dwindling population is despondent, and quietly waits for the end... Things are bleak, but Velvet Scarlatina—survivor of a devastating massacre—resolves to keep fighting anyway. This conclusive, four-part novel follows her on a search for hope and catharsis, to persevere after terrible loss.Inspired by Monty Oum'sRWBY, this alternate continuity explores the aftermath of a decisive Grimm attack on Beacon Academy.





	Red Velvet - Volume I

### 

### Prologue | Remnant

It’s been sixteen months since Beacon fell. It never used to snow so much in this part of Vale, but it’s been nothin’ but cold, grey skies since the Grimm swept in.

My name is Velvet Scarlatina: I’m a faunus, which isn’t as hard as it used to be; nobody really has time to be properly hateful towards us anymore. My ears are just like my mother’s: Brown rabbit ears, tall and thin. Inherited some of Mum’s springiness, too; that helps with navigating what’s left of the inner city.

Take right now: I’m lookin’ at the bones of some old office building, most of its face sloughed off, piled up around the perimeter. Somebody else might decide to move further down, go through what’s left of 26th. That’s fair enough, but _I’m_ better off just hoppin’ up the rubble to what’s left of the second floor—easy as 1-2-3. ...Don’t like going to 26th, if I can avoid it; it’s on the waterfront, which means the academy’s in full view.

Oh, tsk... It doesn’t mean much anymore, but it’s worth saying that I was a student at Beacon Academy, Vale’s premier combat school. They were teachin’ us how to be Huntresses and Huntsmen, but that’s all in the past. Most of my class was killed when our school was overrun... Or—if not then—in the weeks that followed. The few that survived, well… They mostly gave up hunting and just kinda… Went home. Or to whatever’s left of home, I should say; Vale’s not the only place hurting right now.

Pretty often, my clients’ll notice how young I am compared to most everyone else in the camps. They’ll ask me if I’m angry at the other students—all my friends that left. There’s no way to say this strongly enough: _I’m not_.

Actually... I think I kind of _envy_ them. I can’t go home—can’t bring myself to leave this place behind. My dream was to become a Huntress, but Beacon and all the other schools are gone: No more graduations, qualifications, CCT to connect Hunters to the people that need them… There aren’t gonna be any new Huntresses, so I’m tryin’ to be the next best thing: _Generally helpful_. 

That’s... Not very descriptive, is it? Let me try again: I’m… Some kind of mercenary? A private investigator, maybe. 

...No, that makes what I do sound too excitin’. One more go: Vale’s capital was huge and now it’s in ruins, buried under feet n’ feet of snow. When Beacon fell, so many died—so much was lost. Hunters, fortune seekers, the few students that’ve stayed like me… We all dig into what’s left of the city and the academy, tryin’ to steal a little closure for the families of the dead.

So... Sounds like “graverobber” is more apt than anything else. Yeesh… Way to bring down the mood, Velvet...

Glynda Goodwitch is—technically speaking—the Headmistress of Beacon Academy: She inherited the position when the previous Headmaster was found dead. Her... _Promotion_ has never been formalised, though, and she usually shys away from the title. With the school destroyed, Glynda’s taken command of this new, uh… “Memento recovery service” instead. She’s been in charge from day one, since the very first search and rescue operations. She treats me well, but... I don’t think she likes talkin’ with me. Or havin’ me nearby—or even seein’ me, really. Maybe having a student still here is embarrassing for her? Or it’s a bother, havin’ to worry over a novice? ...I dunno. Regardless, she only ever assigns me small jobs that skirt along the edge of the city; if I want to go any deeper than the suburbs, I have to contract my own missions.

Earlier this month for example: A dad came in from Vacuo to the west, wanting to learn what happened to his son. It took days of digging—first through what old pen n’ paper records we’ve managed to recover, then literally through the snow along the Boulevard—but I found ‘em: Not much was left, but the armor was enough for a positive ID. Just that—that’s all it took: A few, banged up scraps of metal were enough to let that man begin to grieve in earnest. It was the truth he was missing—a final, _decisive_ shot of pain, so he could start to heal...

That—I mean, that’s what I _hope_ , anyway...! It’s left up to my imagination, since I don’t usually hear from my clients again: CCT’s still offline, and nobody likes coming to Vale once, let alone a second time.

...You know, I _miss_ the CCT. Didn’t think I would at the start of this. Used to think it was ninety-nine percent pettiness—and to be fair, _it was_ —but wow do I miss it: Arguin’ about movies, watchin’ animals be in places they’re not supposed to be... It’s like: _Pigs_ don’t go in _teacups_! And are they small pigs, or are those big teacups? Whew… I miss all those silly lil' piggies.

Do you know what I miss most, though? ... _Teams_. Teams of Hunters, banding together to protect the peace, fighting side by side under an... Oddly _specific_ naming scheme. Yeah… I miss my team. For a few reasons—some more frivolous than others, if I’m honest. Any idea how hard it is to fit a “V” into a name that _also_ brings a colour to mind? I was so nervous when we were getting grouped. I couldn’t imagine how I’d fit in with Coco, Fox and Yatsuhashi—oh, sweet Yatsuhashi... Maybe we were doomed from the start. CFVY to “coffee” always _was_ a bit of a stretch, wasn’t it?

...Oh! I’ve got one! I’ll need to find an M, L and an N, then we’ll join up to make Team VMLN—you’d say it like “vermillion!” ...That’s actually quite pretty, isn’t it?

Yeah… Gandering out from the top floor of what’s left of this office, the buildings peekin’ out through the howlin’ snow... They’re all as good as graves to me. For all I know, there might not be a single other Huntress out there, let alone three— _especially_ three named just right to indulge my childhood fancy. No, lookin’ out over Vale’s frozen remains... I know I’m alone.

### Chapter 01 | Anesidora

No client today; this trip’s one just for me. I rifle through the ruins on my own pretty often—no mission, no bounty—just to see if I can find anyone that can be ID’d “out of context”; that’s our term for bodies and things intact enough to be recognised without relyin’ on where we found them, or who we found them near. It’s a sad thing, but sometimes I have to leave what I find alone... All I can do is take a few notes, post them back in camp, and hope they help somebody else find them again later, once family shows up lookin’ for th—wait, shh… Movement in the alley around the corner from this one.

_“Grimm.”_

When Beacon fell, _everyone_ was watching; we became the focus of all the world’s heartache. Grimm are monsters drawn to negative emotions, and this place is a… It’s an emotional wound that’ll _never_ heal; the sorrow here is self-sustaining, practically tangible. By our best guess, the Vale’s capital is presently home to at least _twenty_ _thousand_ Grimm; the number fluctuates, but I’m sad to say it’s trending upwards. The ones prowlin’ around near me are just common Ursai... But there’s a lot of ‘em.

The Ursai are broad and bear-like. They have the inky black bodies and white “bone” masks common to all Grimm; they’re distinguished by thick claws and numerous uneven spurs protruding down their spines. It’s not fair how quick they are—if you’re that strong, you shouldn’t get to move fast too. In the rough hierarchy we use to categorise Grimm, they’re not actually considered to be all that dangerous: While physically powerful, they’ve not got a clever bone in their bodies. Hm… I’ve only got “the big guns” with me today; I should find something that’s more on their level.

The battered remains of a fire escape hang nearby. It’s an easy jump up to the hanging ladder, before scamperin’ through a hole in the wall to the upper floors. Vale was a city of warriors: That didn’t save it in the end, but—at the very least—there’s no shortage of weapons lyin’ around. ...Ah-ha! A little rusty around the edges, but this one’ll clean up nice enough.

“... _Really? What is it, then?_ ”

Rifle spear—antique model, by the looks of it. Uh, I guess it has a static frame...

“ _You mean to tell me… That it doesn’t even transform?_ ”

Doesn’t look like it.

“ _Garbage. Not worth your time._ ”

No—don’t say _that_! It’s a solid weapon.

“ _It’s a pea-shooter with a pointy stick on the end._ ”

The simplicity makes it _reliable_ . ... _AND_ less prone to pinching, which is always a plus! Let me set it up for a shot. ...It’s uh, heh... A little hard to fit in the frame...

“ _So go corner to corner, you dimwit! I hear snow crunchin’ outside!_ ”

Corner to corner, right you are. ...Done. One rifle spear, ready to print! That’s a fine photo, if I can say so myself. Good job, Anesidora! Where would I be without you?

“ _Without your goofy magic camera? Dead, most likely. ...No, that was hasty: You’d never have gone to Beacon without it, so you’d be safe at home, a thousand miles from these hangry bears—take some time to think about_ that _later. Get ready._ ”

A hollow reflection of the spear is drawn before me: A pale, translucent copy, framed in brilliant blue. It’s a memory, given shape and mass; a weapon of Dust forged by my Anesidora, deadly as the original ever was. I pluck it from the air with a flourish.

The first arrives, with the pack soon to follow: An Ursa scrambles up the fire escape, into the scooped-out shell of this apartment building. Whirling my weapon, I slash it across the face, diverting its charge. The monster crashes into a moldering dresser before collapsing to the ground, stunned. I skewer it through its side and fire a shot from the tip of my spear in one smooth motion. The Grimm shudders, then falls limp. It’s slain, but another is already clawing up to replace it— _and_ I can hear more followin’ close behind. The room is fillin’ up, a wall of darkness dappled with angry white claws and teeth. I can’t stay here… Diving through a hole where a window used to live, I land heavily in a snow-filled courtyard. They follow—they _all_ follow—but out here in the streets, I’ll have room to fight properly.

Leaping high into the air, I drop onto a chargin’ Ursa, driving my rifle spear through the nape of its neck. Kickin’ off its back, I fire a shot; the recoil frees my weapon and drives me higher into the sky. One... Two... Three Ursai lie dead, each impaled from above. Carefully choosing my next target, I land with a tumble then hurl my spear. The beast staggers as I dash closer; a jump kick over-penetrates the unlucky Grimm, _plus_ the one lurkin’ behind it. Another lumbers into view: There’s no time to withdraw my weapon, so I ram it hard with my shoulder instead, leverin’ it around _ju-ust_ enough for a clear, point-blank shot. That’s three more, dead.

Looking around, I can’t help but sigh: Didn’t move quickly enough, and now I’m surrounded. Two dozen or so... Maybe more? It’s hard to tell if the ones I think I see in the back are real, or if they’re just shadows. Dense melees can be such a chore… I dig my heels into the snow as the Grimm tighten into a circle around me.

### Chapter 02 | Looking Grimm

The Ursai are finished: The last of them is just beginning to smoke and fume. Soon, it’ll be nothin’ but wind-blown ash.

“ _They were just a bunch’a Ursa, after all. ...Honestly, you should be embarrassed; they nearly got through your Aura._ ”

My Aura is fine, _thank you very much_. I’ve seriously built it up keepin’ the snow away; that’s the only good thing about this crappy weather.

“ _Mm-hm, sure—whatever you say… What about the spear?_ ”

Almost used up.

“ _So much for it being_ “reliable,” _hmm?_ ”

Oh, _hush_. That was… Forty five, maybe fifty Ursa? That’s reliable enough for me. ...Brr, my Aura _is_ gettin’ a little thin, though; without its shielding at full-strength, I’m starting to feel the cold, you know? _Really_ startin’ to feel it, actually! Guess it’s time to head back…

“ _I don’t disagree, bu-u-ut… You’re really gonna have’ta take care of that, first._ ”

Hmm?

“That _. Jet-black needle? Pokin’ up from underground. Straight through your_ heel and calf _...? Aura must’ve just run out. ...Suppose you should’ve spent more time out in the snow, huh?_ ”

Oh! I’d been hopin’ I was imagining that. It hurts… _Quite badly_ —pretty sure I’m in some kind of shock.

“ _You should move, sweetheart._ ”

Driving one of the two real knives I carry into the ground beneath my heel, the shadowy needle disappears in a puff of oily, black smoke. The snow under my boot is quickly stained red. Limping, I stumble into an alley, then pull myself sloppily over a low fence. Bash a door once, twice… Nothin’. You win, _Door_ —stay closed forever for all I care! Another alley, before stealin’ a glance behind me: A field of black lashes, tipped in bone-white slivers sharp enough to piece steel and concrete; deadly feelers, cast up from a burrowin’ Grimm. They come up rigid, relax a little, then start lashin’ about—hard enough to break bone. Looking around, I see the streets fillin’ with _hundreds_ of these wires, each five or six feet long...

A pack of Hydra have it out for me.

...I’m boxed in, the buildings around me slick with ice; there’s nothin’ I can use to get a leg up. They’re getting closer…! There’s no choice: Time for one of the big guns. I draw Anesidora from her holster, flipping quickly through the gallery of photos… 

Coco—the leader of my old team—left me her weapon before she, um… Retired and headed for home; I keep it tucked away in my tent, taking a fresh snapshot of it anytime I’m about to leave for the ruins. It’s named Gianduja, and it’s a hand-portable rotary machine gun—a miniature version of the kind of weapon you’d usually only see attached to a dropship. When Coco used the _real_ one, it could shatter stone and splinter trees... My imitation doesn’t have the same punch... But it can still get by on volume.

My rifle spear fades to nothing, soon replaced by the massive, six-barreled Gianduja. It spins up quickly and I open fire, sendin’ a flash of cyan light through the weapon with every bullet. I clear the alley on one side, then revolve on the spot and clear the other. The shots are strong enough to cut the Hydras’ wires, but more keep poppin’ up to take their place... Gianduja is slowing their approach, but that’s _all_ it can do; soon enough, it’s gonna be used up. After that, one of them will dig their way over here and turn me into a pincushion... What can I do? I look around for anything— _anything_ I can use.

Across from me, a dark line weaves its way down the wall between pale, frost-covered bricks. Looks weak, like it’d be falling in if not for the ice... Another big gun it is, then.

Doctor Oobleck is like me: He can’t leave Beacon alone. Whenever we’re in camp at the same time, he always makes sure that I take a shot of Antiquity’s Roast, his weapon. It’s a complicated one: A polearm, a flamethrower, and a cannon too. I whip up a copy after lettin’ Gianduja fade to nothing, then spray fire in a wide circle around me. The sudden heat sends the tendrils retreatin’ underground in droves, but that’s not really what I need it for: A detonation at the end of a spinning strike sends the wall crashin’ inward, scatterin’ bricks throughout a dusty living room. Sorry, House; you’ve been through so much already...

Stepping through the halo of pulverised drywall and insulation, the living room has _exactly_ what I need: There’s a staircase to the second floor! But… But it’s—

“— _Already got a Hydra under it, you slowpoke! Why’d you think they’d only be closin’ in out on the streets? Honestly, you’re pretty thick to be caught off guard by_ this _..._ ”

I bathe the first floor in blue flame, then turn around and do the same to the street behind me. Fire—more and more fire—until my Antiquity’s Roast is all burned up, fading to nothing in my hands.

“ _Ooo, that is_ lovely _, though! There’s something about blue fire th—_ ”

Quiet please! I need to think.

“ _Oh ho,_ sorry _... Better think fast: Things are starting to look a little dark..._ ”

 _Quiet_! I need to think, I nee—

Somethin' bright lashes—cuts into my shoulder and chest, sendin’ me spinning hard to the ground. It’s funny… I know there are important things to attend to at present, but… My mind can’t help but fixate on the colours in front of me: White snow. Off-white wallpaper. Red snow. Cyan fires, turning orange and yellow as the living room begins to catch. Something bright and silver nearby—what is that, exactly? ...It’s a gleaming tea tray, half buried. I see my face starin’ back from it. I’ve been out here longer than I thought: My hood and hair and ears are all white with frost. My eyes... Must be bloodshot? They look red. Wait, that doesn’t make sense—the _irises_ are red... I see my mouth movin’, but the words aren’t mine.

“ _Lookin’ dark, little rabbit; look-ing_ dark _. One could even say... Things are lookin’—pfft, heh ha ha…_ ”

 _Don’t_... Don’t say it—don’t be that way. Just gimme a minute… To think…

### Chapter 03 | Nonsense

Darkness. I’m surrounded by a gently whistling void, until very abruptly…

I’m home. It’s my childhood bedroom, all done up in creams and greens, with bits of yellow and gold. So many little textures: The floor is covered in carved wooden tiles, the walls by hand-painted paper. It’s the kind of work Mum and Dad did as a matter of course... _This_ is the care that goes into a house you build for yourself—the kind of craft and care humans pay a fortune to have imitated.

Everythin’ is here: My little bookcase, my bed and dresser, nightstand, toybox… Everything that’s supposed to be here _is_... With the startling addition of one thing that _isn’t_ : A faunus is sittin’ cross-legged atop my toybox. She’s wearin’ a white riding cloak; long, white rabbit ears stretch from two tidy holes in the hood.

“Did I just... _Die_? Is this what dyin’ is?” I ask frankly. I don’t _feel_ like I’m dead or dyin’, but... What else could this be?

“Tsk, look at you: Askin’ the big questions right up front, not even introducin’ yourself...” the white rabbit replies.

I’m sorry—an amendment: Replies _obnoxiously_ . Her voice is light and irreverent, sounding soft at first to mask a sudden, sharp _bite_. I don’t like her sittin’ in my room, on my toybox. To be frank... I don’t seem to care much for her in general.

“You’re not dead, _stupid_ ,” she continues. “Not here, not today—not as long as I have my way, that is.”

I let silence settle in. Nothin’ about this is okay. I’m pretty sure this is all imaginary... Wait—my shoulder…! That wound was pretty bad, wasn’t it? _Now_ everything makes sense: All my blood’s fallin’ out, and all _this_ is my brain havin’ one last go—a funny little vignette to keep me preoccupied while I bleed to death...

That said... If I’m about to die, no harm in playin’ along: “What is _your way_ , precisely?”

A wicked smile flashes in the darkness of her hood. Something’s wrong with that smile—I don’t like how wide it is.

“You’re so thick-headed,” she begins, “Dense and dull and _constantly_ in your own way; that’s what you are… Hey: How does your magic camera work?”

Wha—What? That was rough to sit through, and now I’m supposed to answer a question like _that_ ? It’s not like I built Anesidora myself; I know enough to keep up regular maintenance, but how it _really_ functions is clear as mud to me.

“Well—to start—Anesidora’s not _magic_ : She’s a Dust catalyst...” I begin hesitantly. “By takin’ a picture of a weapon or some other tool, Anesidora creates a schematic. After that, she can print a duplicate by emitting and energising a mixture of powered Dust; cyan for a hard-light form, plus a _pinch_ of purple to generate artificial mass. Her copies have properties very similar to the originals, but will be… Um, _brittle_ would be one way to describe them. They’re short-lived, fading to nothing as the cyan Dust loses cohesion. As a duplicate breaks down, its schematic degrades, too; I have to take a new snapshot if I want to conjure another copy.”

The white rabbit taps a finger to her chin thoughtfully.

“ _In-ter-es-ting_ …” She draws the word out with aggravating, mock curiosity. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

Feelin’ self-conscious, I simply shrug.

“EERNT! Nope, not what I was lookin’ for; you’ve missed the point completely. You’re just skimmin’ along the surface, my empty-headed friend!”

...I can’t stand much more of this. “Maybe so,” I mutter, “But you don’t need to be such a bully about it…”

She’s perfectly still and silent for several seconds before standing very deliberately. Moving toward me, each step sends a loud thud bounding through the room.

“A bully?” she asks incredulously. “A _bully_... _Heh_. ...You listen to me you _mangy,_ half-dead hare!”

She jabs a finger into my shoulder. Pain blooms across my torso, sending me tottering. Lookin’ down, I’m shocked to find I’m still wounded here. _Badly_ wounded: Bloody all the way down—from the gash in my shoulder to the hole in my heel. Why didn’t it…? I _swear_ , I didn’t feel anything a second ago...

“A “bully” is _exactly_ what you need!” The white rabbit’s words are short and fierce. “ _Sixteen months_! Nearly a year and a half spent lookin’ backwards, wallowing in self-pity!”

“I’ve been helpin’ people find closure, move on with their lives…” I interject meekly.

“What a load of _crap_! You think you’re some sweet little do-gooder rabbit, but you know what you _really_ are? You’re nothing but a _vulture_ , preying on the dead and dying!”

“Nobody charges less than me... It’s just enough so I don’t have to lean on the camps’ stockpiles…” My voice is so quiet, now.

“SHUT UP!” bellows the white rabbit. Her words barely fit in the room—I can feel them bearing down on me. The pain from my wound is getting worse; I’m startin’ to feel nauseous... 

“You _KNOW_ that’s not what I meant. I’m not talking about their wallets, or the scraps they’ve scavenged: You pick away at their _memories_ —at their _hearts_! You move other people along so you don’t have to go yourself... It’s nothing but a _waste_. You’re wasting away here, hidin’ behind a selfless facade so nobody _out there_ says a word against you!”

The pressure of her voice fades; silence rushes in. Then—with a disquieting calm—she continues: “Anesidora is _your_ weapon—made just for you. It… _Accommodates_ your specific needs in a way you can’t yet comprehend; has power you can’t seem to imagine. Come ‘ere.”

It hurts to move, so I’m slow to respond. Exasperated, the white rabbit takes me by the hand, pullin’ me roughly over to the mirror attached to my dresser. Lookin’ back, I see a trail of red behind me… Hope those tiles are lacquered.

“Camera!” she demands.

With my good arm, I reach across my body, fishing Anesidora from its holster. It’s a deceptively simple brown box, framed in gold. Sliding a switch opens it, revealing a cyan lens and flashing bulb; they’re both crystalline Dust.

The white rabbit’s voice is jovial again: “So what’s up? What’s it got loaded right now?”

I start to list from memory: “A couple knives and a few hand tools, a revolver loaded with hammerhead rounds, a combination battle rifle and glaive, a—”

“No,” she interrupts curtly. “Not just what you remember: Look at them,” she insists, tapping the screen. “Look at the pictures.”

Hesitantly, I activate the camera’s small screen, and _immediately_ regret it: It’s another student from Beacon; an energetic girl, a little younger than me. She died on her feet, leanin’ against her maul. The field in front of her was chaos—a mess of blackened stone and glass. There’s no way for me to know what happened exactly, but... She was at the epicenter of somethin’ huge—some catastrophic attack. I’ve always imagined that she let herself go, sure that it’d save the person behind her. There’s a picture of him and his weapons, too: He’s lying flat on his back, still clutching a pair of forest green machine pistols. As far as we could tell, he died from Death Stalker venom—long before his guardian passed.

I took these photos soon after Beacon fell, durin’ the early search and rescue. There wasn’t time to part them from their weapons—and I honestly wouldn’t have had the stomach then. I have so many photos like this from around then: Desperate. Heroic. ...Pathetic. Always dead, though; always something dead... 

There was another girl in the class below mine. Her name was Yang, and she fought with a pair of gauntlets called Ember Celica. She made it out alive, but not… She didn’t survive _intact_ : She lost a gauntlet and the arm that went with it, which I later found. I... Have a picture of that gauntlet, and of her frozen, skeletal hand still coiled inside. Ember Celica can fire flares, which are in short supply even now. Can’t use it without feelin’ ill, but I’ve put those flares to good use: They’ve saved lives; others, and my own.

...When did I start crying?

Lookin’ at these photos... Why had I ever stopped?

“There’s some good stuff in here,” the white rabbit mutters much too sweetly. “Some of these might have kept you out of this mess to begin with.”

Trying to keep my voice steady, “I can’t use most of these.”

Something angry is stirring in the white rabbit’s gut; hearin’ it rumblin’, I quickly continue. “I mean to say: Most of these aren’t of any actual use. They’re nearly burnt up; barely more than _embers._ I just keep them as… Mementos, I guess. These photos are all that’s left of some—” I clear my throat, “ _most_ of these people.”

The white rabbit leans in close, smiling. Out of the darkness of her hood, I can see her eyes for the first time; cunning, mean and red, reflecting my face back at me.

“Sappy as that all is, it’s good that you kept these. _This_ is what we’ve really needed to talk about: _This_ is my way.” She waggles a finger, punctuating her point. “Hold the camera up, pointed at the mirror.”

For a camera, Anesidora’s heavy; she’s hard to hold steady one handed, even when I’m _not_ mortally wounded. Seein’ her shake, the white rabbit steps right up against me, steadying the other side.

“Ahh, if only you weren’t such a loser... If only you’d figured out how this thing _actually_ works sooner… How different things might have been!”

She leans heavily against my wounded shoulder. It’s pushed me over some kinda pain threshold, and now I mostly just feel numb... I’ve gotta say: It’s an improvement. Idly, I wonder if she’d be disappointed to hear that. The white rabbit continues:

“I won’t lie: Your friends? Beacon, Vale... The whole of Remnant? You might have spared them all a great deal of suffering. If you knew how this thing really works, you might have considered using Anesidora to take a picture of… _Anesidora_.”

“That… Wait, _what_? What would that accomplish?” I ask, bewildered.

The white rabbit speaks with frustrating calm, commenting on something as sure as the seasons: “The camera copies weapons it photographs. Anesidora is a weapon. Isn’t it obvious what will happen?”

“No!” I cry with as much energy as I can muster. “What, I’ll have twin cameras?! That sounds like _nothing_ —like nonsense! I’m _dying_ , and you’re spouting _nonsense!_ ”

“Listen, you dope... I know this will be hard, but I need you to focus on a whole _two things_ today: Trustin’ me, and showin’ a little imagination. ...Anesidora is _wonderfully_ complicated, emitting fields of Dust with each shot to analyze weapons completely—inside and out. Think hard about that. If she couldn’t compute how weapon internals worked, they’d all end up the same: Pointy sticks, with none of the fun, complicated _shooty bits_.”

I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but... It’s interestin’ to ponder. I know Anesidora’s _printer_ is complicated, but I’d never given much thought to the _camera_ ; it hardly seemed extraordinary.

“But what… I still don’t understand. What good will Anesidora copying her own guts do?” I ask.

The white rabbit gives me a smug, crooked grin. “I’m not tellin’! Show a little _initiative_ ; find out for yourself.” She practically sings it... Then, her mocking smile fades, replaced by a thin, serious line. She extends her fingers over the lens.

“There’s no turnin’ back from this—I’ve gotta warn you about what comes next: ...Impossible trials. Suffering. An _unimaginable_ burden. The source of all the worlds’ ills. But... There’s somethin’ beyond all that. Any idea what it is?”

I’m feeling quite morbid. “Death?”

“Too right. But before then…?” She moves her fingers off the lens, to the camera’s trigger.

“I see some hope.”

The shutter snaps, and I find myself again in darkness.

### Chapter 04 | Lernaean Hydra

I’m on my side, starin’ at a silver tea tray half buried in snow. Anesidora’s in my hand, held in front of me; not sure how she got there. Quickly, I thumb through the gallery of photos...

I can’t believe it: There’s a second copy of _every_ picture— _new_ copies, bright as if they’d just been taken. I’m dumbfounded, wishin’ I had time to think about what this means, but the fires around me are dying; the shiftin’ shadows of Hydra wires are looming.

But… But for the first time in over a year, I fight with everything I have. Scannin’ through my gallery, I find a picture of Blake—another of my juniors—and her weapon, the exotic Gambol Shroud: A scythe-bladed handgun, attached to a length of Dust-infused cloth. Flipping to my feet, I whirl the hand scythe by its ribbon. The broad, sweeping slashes clear the space around me in an _instant_. With room to breathe, I pull the handgun’s trigger as I hurl it high at the face of a nearby building; the recoil of the shot drives the blade deep into the icy surface, and I use its ribbon to pull myself to the safety of the third floor.

 _Finally_ , time to think! ...I recall two things: One, Hydra needles are _very_ receptive to sound; two, a smartly dressed boy from the Vytal Festival fought with—of all things—a _trumpet_. Completely absurd, I know...

...Yes! I have a new copy of a picture from the tournament! The Gambol Shroud vanishes, replaced by a trumpet. Didn’t get a good look at how to play it well, but playin’ _loud_ should do well enough for today... A ringing blast brings all the mole-like Hydra bursting to the surface, writhing in pain. Before they can recover, I flip to a different photo. Trading my horn for a pair of forest green machine pistols, I slay each monster with a quick burst.

It’s done. The ashen corpses get caught by the wind, soon blown away to nothingness.

...Ugh, my vision is bleary; my eyes are playin’ tricks on me. Collapsing against an empty window frame—my weapons fading—I hear something odd. Sounds like… _Cheering_? Lookin’ through the snowstorm to the rooftops across the street, I swear... Looks like there’s a pair of faunus; rabbits like me, their long ears wavin’ wildly in the storm. One of them has white hair; the other, brown. Huh. _My_ hair’s brown, isn’t it…? I think it usually is, or… Or it was…? The rabbits are pointin’ at the sky…? What’da’ya want, ya goofs? ...Oh, right—good idea.

My stomach churns as I conjure a lone Ember Celica, firing a series of flares overhead. Cold… Real cold. Eyes are _heavy_...

“ _Sleep._ ”

...Must have fallen asleep for a bit. The faunus are gone, but Glynda’s here. She looks upset… Ugh, that’s so embarrassing... Maybe it’s not too late to bleed to death? She’s close by—bandaging me—but she sounds very far away. ... _Weird_. My Aura is recovering, which is slowin’ the bleeding, but it’s still so cold out here… I bundle my cloak against my neck and chest. ...Think I might need a doctor.

### Chapter 05 | With Honours

Turns out, I _did_ need a doctor! The cut was deep enough to warrant a few stitches, to help hold it shut. My Aura has been healin’ it up pretty nicely since then; the doctor said it shouldn’t scar too badly, which is a small relief.

Here’s another lucky break: I’m _really_ glad I started wearin’ my hair short, ‘cause nothin’s _quite_ as sad as havin’ to wash blood out of tangled, waist-length hair...

On the other side of things, the shirt I was wearing… it didn’t make it. Poor thing’s already been bleached and cut into washrags. I hate that I ruined another shirt; quality clothes are at a premium out here, and Coco only left so many tops to pilfer from our old dorm room…

The whole situation’s put me in a rough spot, actually. When I told Glynda I was leavin’ Vale, she was at a loss for what to do; that’s a rarity for her. First she asked if I needed more medical attention, then asked if I wanted counseling, _then_ reversed course completely and said it was for the best... She must have thought I was throwin’ in the towel ‘cause my injury was as bad as it was.

Thinkin’ of that, I couldn’t hold anything back, and just told her the truth: I had some kind of epiphany out there, that I’d just been hidin’ here on the outskirts of my ruined school—behind a childhood dream I thought was lost to me. Beacon was supposed to train me to fight Grimm, and protect Remnant. I realised that—in lieu of the school, the certification, the title—I should just… Start actin’ like a real Huntress, no title necessary. There’s more I can do for the people of Remnant; that I have an _obligation_ to do more.

What did she think of all that...? I’m just not sure. Her response was… Unexpected. Glynda’s always been very _cool_ around me; distant, no-nonsense. When she finally accepted that I was really leaving, she put a hand to my cheek—just for a bit. She begged my pardon, and then went straight back to the desk in her tent. I told her that I wasn’t taking Coco’s Gianduja with me—it’s too heavy for me to take on the road, and I wanted her to decide what to do with it. Things were feelin’ awkward, so I turned to leave… Then, she added one more thing:

“You know… I’m still the Headmistress of Beacon Academy. So by what little power that position still affords me, I confer to you your certification in the Combat Arts, _ad honorem_. The rights and privileges _aren’t_... Exactly what they used to be, but Velvet: You’re more than entitled to whatever’s left. ...Stay safe, Huntress.”

There’s not really anyone else I have’ta say goodbye to. Everyone’s held at arm's length in the camps around Beacon; it’s somber and solitary—few acquaintances and even fewer friends. I _do_ ask everyone I pass on my way out to let me photograph their weapons, though; nobody’s ever turned me away, but it still seems polite to ask.

It’s early in the morning, and the skies are shifting from snow to sleet. Everything I own is on my back, either worn or tucked away in a travel bag. A tattered, secondhand hood is drawn close around me: In my mind, I know it’s my Aura that warms and protects me... But deep in my heart, I feel like it’s this cloak keepin’ me safe.

Plus—if you don’t mind me sayin’ so—I look good in red.

### Afterword | On the Topic of Menagerie

A relatively small continent far south-east of Vale, Menagerie is home to the largest number of congregated faunus anywhere on Remnant. The landscape is dominated by vast tracts of desert, dangerous wildlife that rivals the Grimm in ferocity, or—more commonly— _both_. Despite the inhospitable environment, a handful of small villages thrive along the bountiful northern and eastern coasts.

Geographically isolated, the faunus to the east have developed a unique regional accent; a kind of relaxed, friendly mumble. Vowels are spoken quite differently: The word _bin_ sounds like _bean_ and _hat_ is pronounced _heht_ , for example. Additionally, the R-sound is often omitted entirely, so _better_ becomes _bettah_. Contractions and other linguistic abbreviations are common: Words that end with -ing are often truncated, so _going_ becomes _goin’_. Uncommon even in other parts of the continent, this accent’s a reliable sign that someone—or at least someone’s family—hails from Menagerie’s eastern coast.

**\- R.**

### Illustrations

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**Author's Note:**

> **_Red Velvet_ is a complete, four-part novel; this is just the first Volume. The rest of it is available free on my Google Drive for [preview and download](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1n8kcFnqMrbN472Ot2vNS7b5g2HCuKanJ?usp=sharing).**   
> 
> 
> An external link might seem like an unnecessary hassle, so I want to be very clear why the whole story isn't available on AO3: I'm a graphic designer by trade, and I put a lot of work into some nicely typeset, partially illustrated PDFs. Even with AO3's HTML formatting, the PDFs still look better; they're the best way to read _Red Velvet_. So, please forgive the inconvenience and enjoy the rest of the story.


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